Short Stories by Phoenix Hocking

December 6, 2010. Statement by murder suspect Gladys MacCoy. Present are Gladys MacCoy, Sergeant Melissa Smart, and Deputy John Adams. Time: 8:47 a.m. Transcribed by Harriett Doolittle.

I knew it was wrong when I done it. I should of called the police; that’s what I should of done.

But I didn’t.

Maybe I should back up a touch, just so’s you’ll understand, when you write your piece for that report, why I done what I done. Will this be in the papers? I always wanted to see my name in the papers, and not the funny papers either! Suspect laughs.


Marvin had been gone, oh golly, maybe nigh on twelve years or more. Up and left, he did. Jest went out for milk and never come back. Don’t know why; never did find out. Mebee he jest got tired of trying to make ends meet when they warn’t even in spittin’ distance of each other. Anyhow, Marvin had done gone, and me and Jimmy, we was left purty much alone.

Then Jimmy up and joined the Army. Stupid thing to of done. Stupid. Got himself killed over in that stupid war nobody wanted in the first place. But don’t let me get started on that! We never will get to why I kept that baby.

Now, I ask you. What would you of done? Huh? Here I was, ain’t got no husband no more, ain’t got no son no more. Jest me, livin’ all alone in that shack of mine, out on old Route 12. Jest me and a few chickens and a mangy old dog that don’t do nuthin’ but lay around and watch the rats take over the place. Stupid dog. Don’t know why I kept him all them years.

Come on now...my place ain’t that bad. Got an indoor terlet, hot water inside when I get the wood stoked up. and my dishes get washed purty most regular. Anything I can’t wash, I let the dog take care of. He don’t mind and neither do I, so what’s the harm?

It was Mary Lou what brung the baby over. Mary Lou bein’ the little girl down the road, up to old Ma Parker’s place. Course, I guess Mary Lou twarn’t so little, since she had managed to get herself knocked up. Her pa said there twarn’t no way he was going to keep the little bastard...sorry about that word, I don’t allow cussin’ in my house, but a child born on the wrong side of the sheets is a bastard; my Marvin said that was a “technical term,” though I never did quite get what he meant by that.

Anyhow, Mary Lou brung the baby over and that little thing was jest the cutest thing I ever did see. It was kind of skinny then, even more’n it is now. Don’t you look at me like that! It’s true! That poor little thing was nigh on skin and bones. Mary Lou twarn’t allowed to nurse it, you see, so’s by the time it got to me that poor little thing was starving.

Well, look at me. Do I look like I got titties that’ll feed anything? I didn’t think so. So, I done the next best thing I could think of. I borrowed Sally Prince’s bitch dog. Molly, I think her name was. She’d just had a litter of pups and her tits were hanging so low they almost touched the ground when she walked. I just borrowed some milk from her from time to time, that’s all. She didn’t like it much, and it got so’s she’d run when she saw me comin’.

I guess, though, maybe it twarn’t enough. That little baby just got weaker and weaker, and skinnier and skinnier. And when I could finally see that it warn’t gettin’ no better, well I done what I had to do. I done what I should of done in the first place. I called the police.

Now, mebee you can explain to me how come I’s here? I done the best I could for that little thing. I tried to feed it, I put diapers on it when I had to. Course, they weren’t real diapers; they was just old sheets I torn up. But even the police said that child didn’t have no diaper rash or nuthin’.

Can I see it? I’d like to see it, if I could. It surely were a cute little thing.

Note - At this point, it is assumed that Deputy Adams explained to suspect that the child had died. The tape was damaged in the ensuing incident. Investigation continues as to how suspect was able to retain possession of the firearm with which she killed Deputy Adams and herself. Sergeant Smart remains on medical leave. Respectfully submitted, Harriett Doolittle.



END

On the day in question, the day I last saw Helen, she was out earlier than usual to clean the graves in the Morgan family plot. She was older, of course, than I remembered from when I knew her as a boy, but I’m not sure she has ever been young. She was still heavyset, with short “Dutch boy” hair flecked with gray. Her glasses remained tinted and thick, and she had the beginnings of the older woman’s hunch in her back.

I had not been in town for many years, and was only there to attend to some family business. My uncle had passed away, and as the only living relative within range, I had been elected to deal with his final affairs.

I would like to be able to write that the graves are located in some quaint churchyard, or on a high hill overlooking the sea, or even on some moor in faraway England. But they are not. The graves are only on a tiny plot of land accompanying the house, or what is left of the house.

As with many small family plots in this portion of New England, the graves are not uniform in shape nor space. Some of the monuments that once stood tall and proud have fallen into ruin, and even the concrete flat stones are pitted and distressed. The salt air and caustic spray from the sea have weathered the crosses and statuary. The stone wall around the Morgan family graveyard is more rubble than wall, and gulls have left their opinion of mankind on the stones.

Across the gravel path from the graveyard stands the lighthouse. Yes, of course it is still there; still blaring its warning out to sea, still lighting up the night, still waiting for the sea monster of fiction to come and make love to it. It was all very much as I remembered it, only older, more decayed, sadder.

When I was a boy, before I left town, Helen began to clean the graves every day. Not once a month, or even once a week, thank you. She cleaned them every day. At first light, if one was up and about early enough, you could see Helen, hunched over her broom, flowered nightgown on or heavy robe, depending on the season, sweeping the flat stones with her broom, or wiping the dirt from the monuments and statuary with her hands. Her mouth muttered every line of every headstone, although by this time she knew them all by heart.






At the end of every reading of every headstone, she would bow her head and mutter, “Rest in peace,” and then go on to the next to read the stone, and sweep it clean. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year.

The previous night had been terribly windy, and the graves were littered with leaves, branches and other debris. From the looks of her, I suspected that Helen had hardly slept that night, probably worrying about the final resting place of her loved ones, concerned about damage to the stones, wondering what she would find in the morning.

I decided to visit Helen while I was in town, and strode down the lane early in the morning. When I found her, she was sitting on the stone wall, looking out towards the sea, with the broom lying at her feet. Her flowered nightgown was hiked up past her knees to reveal pudgy, unshaven legs and dirty slippers. Her tinted glasses had slipped down her nose and her hair looked wild and untamed by comb or brush.

“Helen?”

She looked up at me, eyes frightened and confused.

“Helen?” I asked again. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s gone,” she said blankly.

“Who’s gone?”

“Timmy.”

“Timmy?” I asked. “Timmy who?”

“Timmy,” Helen said, “my Timmy.”

Timmy Morgan was Helen’s grandson, and had been 12-years-old when he passed away. He was a bright boy, soft of curl and benevolent of disposition, and courageous to the point of foolhardiness. It was his compassion that had brought about his unfortunate demise, attempting to rescue a kitten who had climbed the tall oak and seemingly could not figure out how to climb back down.

Timmy crawled out on a limb that could not bear his weight and fell to his death. The kitten not only survived, but walked away unscathed. It did not seem fair, somehow, especially when the kitten went on to become an obnoxious tomcat who antagonized the neighbors with a nightly yowl that sent shivers up the spine like nails on a blackboard.

Timmy’s body had lain in its grave for over fifty years. How could he possibly be gone?



******************************************************************************



Timmy was my best friend when I was a boy. I was perhaps eight or nine years old when Timmy came to live with Helen. Always he was “my Timmy” to her, his parentage, or lack thereof, remained a mystery.

Timmy was an adventurous lad, a bit of a prankster, but had a kind and generous heart. No stray dog or cat ever went hungry when Timmy was around. He collected critters like most people might collect stamps or toy cars. His house, which was Helen’s house before it fell into ruin after his death, teemed with pets of all types. Dogs, cats, birds, mice, snakes; all of God’s creatures, great and small, found a place in Timmy’s heart and home. It was nice to go there, after the barrenness of my own home, to a place teeming with life.

I was an only child, and both my parents worked in a time when that was not the usual case. Unlike today, when children are raised by babysitters and nannies, my generation was raised by our mothers, mostly. But my own parents were both professional people, my father a doctor and my mother a nurse, so I was often left to my own devices. I came home from school,let myself in, did my homework, and then scampered out to find what trouble I might get in to that my parents wouldn’t find out about.

More often than not, Timmy was the instigator of such trouble. None of it was malicious or mean. Most of it was not even dangerous. We were just children, after all, in a time when being a child meant playing at the seashore in the summer and flying down a hill on a tobaggon when the first snow fell.

Until the day I die, I will never forget the day Timmy died, because I was there. We were on our way home from school. Timmy had his satchel slung over his shoulder and he was sucking on a piece of sour grass.

“You know why they call this sour grass?” Timmy asked.

“No, why?”

“Because animals pee on it, that’s why.”

“You’re making that up!” I protested.

“I am not!” Timmy shot me a grin. “Just ask anybody; they’ll tell you.”

Just about then, we both heard the plaintive meow from somewhere above our heads. We looked up and saw the kitten, high in the branches.

“Oh, look,” Timmy said. “Look at the poor thing. I’ll bet he got up there and can’t get down.”

Timmy sluffed his satchel onto the ground, spat his piece of sour grass out, and began to climb.

“Timmy, no!” I cried. “It’s too high. You’ll hurt yourself.”

He just grinned at me and said, “No, I won’t. Besides, I’ve climbed this tree lots of times.”

And indeed, he shinnied up the tree as if he had climbed it a million times before. Up and up he went, until he was quite high. The kitten continued to meow and cry, which only spurred Timmy on even farther. He never could stand to see or hear anything cry, not people, not animals.

He reached the limb the kitten was perched on and gradually inched his way out, reaching, reaching. I heard the branch give way and then Timmy was falling, falling, falling, slow motion, arms and legs over and over themselves. And then Timmy was on the ground, still. Timmy lingered for a while, hovered over by the doctors, the neighbors, and of course, by Helen herself, but in the end the damage was too great. Timmy passed quietly away one night, only Helen at his bedside. There was some speculation that Helen had helped his passing, as a way of easing his suffering, but that was sheer foolishness and everybody knew it. Timmy was Helen’s whole life, and when he passed away, part of her passed with him.

After Timmy’s death Helen, who had always been a little reclusive, simply shut down. She had never been much of a gadfly, but now she became practically a hermit. Her home and garden fell into ruin, bit by bit and year by year. Helen took to drinking heavily and grew fat with the heaviness of too much beer. She started smoking, which scandalized the neighbors, and took to wearing her flowered nightgown or bathrobe almost everywhere.

And Helen started tending to the graves. Not just Timmy’s grave, but all the graves in the Morgan family plot received special attention. She swept them clean every morning, read every word on every tombstone, and said a prayer over each one. But at Timmy’s grave, she paused for the longest time. She swept, she read, she prayed, and then she sat on the stone wall and cried.

Timmy was gone. Oh dear God, Timmy was gone.

When Timmy died, I had nightmares every night. Every night I saw him fall, over and over again. Every night I ran to him, but could never quite reach him. Every night, every night, every night. Finally, my parents decided that I might get over Timmy’s death if we simply moved away.

In retrospect, I suppose it was a good decision. In time, the nightmares lessened and finally went away. I grew up, married, had children of my own. Occasionally I remembered my boyhood friend with fondness and sadness, and then went on with my life.

So, on the morning when I last saw Helen, I was not surprised at her appearance. The flowered nightgown was just the same as I remembered, the unkempt hair, the tinted glasses. Someone told me years ago that Helen had lost her mind, but I had forgotten that. So when I saw her, sitting on the stone wall of the graveyard, crying that Timmy was gone, for one single moment I thought perhaps someone had stolen his body, or that the tombstone she had lovingly cared for all these years had been damaged. But no, it was just old Helen, who mourned the loss of her Timmy, just as she had every day for all those fifty odd years.



*****************************************************************************



Later, having a drink in the local bar, I asked about Helen.

“Helen?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Helen Morgan, out by the lighthouse.”

“You mean that old ruined place? The one with the falling down graveyard?”

“That’s the one.”

Scooter Miles, a old chum I had recognized from all those years ago, piped up. “They ought to tear that old place down and dig up them bones and bury them proper somewhere.”

“Well, they can’t to that,” I said. “Where would Helen go?”

Scooter looked at me like I was crazy. “What do you mean where would Helen go? That crazy old coot’s been dead for forty years or more. Nobody out there but ghosts, man.” He took a swig of his beer. “Nobody out there but ghosts.”

Just old Helen, mourning the loss of her Timmy, just as she had every day for over fifty years.



END

The bowl was piled high with Mandarin oranges, apples, bananas, and kumquats. Kumquats, Sylvia thought, how long has it been since I had a kumquat? She reached for one and Max slapped her hand.


“Don’t touch that!”


Startled, Sylvia drew back her hand and dutifully placed it in her lap. She faced forward and stared out the window. The light once more caught her face in contrast. The fold of the scarf at her neck needed to be readjusted, which Max did, muttering under his breath as he did so.


Stupid woman! Max muttered, though not in a language Sylvia was likely to understand. Nobody understands. You can’t just change position when you are sitting for a portrait. Stupid patron! If it weren’t for the money, Max would be painting the landscapes that he loved, not silly portraits of rich, stupid women.


Sylvia, on the other hand, had thoughts of her own. How dare he? How dare he actually strike me? Antonio would hear about THIS! Yes, he would! And Max’s fee would be greatly reduced. Greatly reduced! Yes, indeed.


“Oh, madame,” Max said, remembering his place, “oh, madame. I am so sorry. So sorry. It’s just that the light, she changes when madame moves. And I only want the best likeness of madame. Only the best.”


Sylvia deigned to lower her head slightly, keeping her pose. Mollified, but only a little, she turned her attention to the open window and tried to make her mind a blank. It was the only way to get through these unsufferable sessions.


It was Antonio, of course, who had insisted on the portrait. “It is because I love you so much!” he had told Sylvia. But the truth was that his friend Gregorio had a portrait made of his his wife, and Antonio did not want to be outdone. But then, Gregorio’s wife was beautiful, and Antonio’s wife, alas, was not.


It’s not that Sylvia was homely exactly. It was just that the features of her face didn’t quite match. One eyebrow was just slightly higher than the other and one corner of her mouth drooped down just enough to be noticeable. One brown eye seemed a little darker than the other, but only in a certain light. But everyone has at least one good feature, if one only looks hard enough, and in Sylvia’s case it was her hair.


Sylvia’s hair was long and the color of roasted chestnuts dappled in sunlight. As she sat at the window, facing outward, one could almost ignore her face and concentrate on her hair instead. And that, thought Max, is how I will make this woman look beautiful.


“Please,” Sylvia said, trying not to move. “Are we almost done? My back is beginning to hurt.”


“Of course, madame. Of course.”


Quickly, Max gathered his supplies as Sylvia rose and stretched.


“Now, remember, madame,” Max said, turning the unfinished piece to the wall. “You are not allowed to look until it is done, yes?”


“I know. I know.” Sylvia sighed. This was just so tiresome. “I won’t look.”






*****************************************************************************






She looked. Of course she looked. How could she not? Every day Max said the same thing. “You are not allowed to look until it is done, yes?” And every day Sylvia replied, “I know. I know. I won’t look.” But she always did.


The portrait was coming along nicely. She noticed that Max was spending a lot of time on her hair which, she had to admit, was her best feature.


Once, when she was young, she had overheard her brother say, “My sister, she is not pretty, but she is kind.” And Sylvia had taken that as a compliment. I would rather be kind than pretty, she often thought, but there was another part of her that said, Yes, but pretty would be nice, too.


Antonio, to his credit, did not mind that his wife was not pretty. Antonio knew many men who were married to pretty women, and these men always seemed to be restless. They worried overmuch about what their women might, or might not, be doing when they were not with them. Antonio did not worry. His wife was a good woman. She was not pretty, but she was competent, and kind. She kept a clean house, and was a good cook and mother to their children.


No, Antonio did not worry about his wife.


And Sylvia, on her part, did not worry about her husband. Antonio was a good man. He was not handsome, but he was a good provider and a good father to their children. No, Sylvia did not worry about her husband.






What Antonio did not know was that Sylvia had a lover. His name was Rico and he was married to Sylvia’s best friend Estelle.


And what Sylvia did not know was that Antonio also had a lover. Her name was Estelle, and she was married to his best friend, Rico.


Estelle and Rico also did not know that each had a lover.






Sylvia knew she was not pretty. Even when Rico whispered, “My beautiful one,” to her on those mornings when he came to the house, she knew she was not. Even so, it was nice to hear, even if she did not believe it.


Rico liked the portrait. Sylvia showed him the portrait on Tuesday morning when he came to call.


“Oh!” He exclaimed. “It is beautiful, like you! I like how he paints your hair.”


Sylvia stood naked, her chestnut hair hanging loose in front of her, covering one breast, also looking at the portrait. Her hair was indeed beautiful. She looked very proper, with her scarf around her shoulders, the bowl of fruit beside her, and the view from the window in the background. Yes, the portrait was lovely, even if she was not.


“My beautiful one,” Rico said, as he took her in his arms and led her into the room that Sylvia shared with Antonio. “My beautiful one...”






Antonio had not felt well all morning. Instead of going to work, he went to Estelle’s house, and told her he could not stay. He was cold, and then hot, and then cold again. Estelle’s lips felt cold to the touch, and he made his excuse and walked home.


Sylvia would be waiting, he knew. The children would all be in school. But Sylvia would be home and she would make him tea and put a compress on his head and lay in bed with him until he fell asleep. His room would be cool and dark and all would be well. And perhaps later, when he woke up, he might feel well enough to make love to his wife. She might not be pretty, but she satisfied his needs.


Later, when the policia came, Sylvia’s unfinished portrait looked silently on as Antonio was led away from the bodies of his wife and his best friend. The portrait made no sound as Estelle howled in anger and sorrow.


And across town, Max painted the landscapes dimly remembered from the mountains of his youth, and thought not at all of the portraits of rich, stupid women.






End

The three words for this story were "Father, Mother, Son," and were given to me by my friend Richard Dalrymple.  Thanks, Richard, for helping me through a dry spell!




Horace Grimsby was not ready to be a father. He knew that the very instant Annie told him she was going to become a mother. Parents. Dear God, they were going to be parents! He pictured a miniature version of himself, a son who looked just like him, but smarter. Please Lord, let the kid be smarter than me, he thought.

He was a sculptor, an artist who could create just about anything out of just about anything. He loved working in marble, but he was just as proficient in wood, or clay, or stone. Heaven knows, he was much better at being a sculptor than he was at his previous profession, that of small-town police officer. And now, he thought, with some incredulous pride, he had created a baby! It was almost too much to imagine.

When God passed out brains and looks, Horace was pretty much at the back of the line and God seemed to have run out of both by the time Horace’s turn came. He was tall and thin, with sharp elbows and knees and sticky-out places that poked through his clothes. As for being the sharpest tool in shed, well, he was more like a squared-off shovel than a spade. He grew up poor, barely passed high school, and then only because the teachers wanted to get rid of him. He wasn’t a trouble-maker, just had a certain something that was lacking in the intelligence department.

What nobody knew, except his mother, was how Horace spent all of his free time. Money was scarce in the Grimsby household. Art supplies would have been unheard of, even if he had enough nerve to ask for them, which he didn’t. Horace would gather bits of wood from the forest near his house, and when he scraped a few pennies together, he would buy bars of Ivory soap and carve intricate little creatures from it. Tiny mice, bears, dogs and birds somehow all found life in miniature under Horace’s gentle hands.

Now, Annie was another story. Annie was a whiz at just about everything. She was smart, and funny, and pretty. She could have had any boy she wanted. But the boy she set her cap for was Horace Grimsby. Who can understand the law of attraction? He was homely as a mud fence; she was pretty as marigolds in bloom. He was a toy short of a Happy Meal, while she could read, write and cypher better than anybody else in class.

All Horace wanted to do was carve, and sculpt, and paint. All Annie wanted was to get married and have children and keep house. In all his imaginings, Horace never in a million years thought he would be able to do what he loved and still make enough money to keep body and soul together, let alone have a family. So, he knew a friend of a friend who offered him a place as a Deputy on the local Police Department.

Annie...did I mention that Annie was also one determined young woman? What Annie wanted was Horace, God alone knows why, so she set out to get him. And Horace was no match for the love of a good woman. Before he knew it, Horace was standing in front of the Justice of the Peace saying “I do.”

The only person, outside of Horace’s mother, who knew his secret, was Annie, and she came upon that by accident. She knew he fooled around in the garage after work, but didn’t know what he was doing. One day she crept in after he went to work and discovered the most beautiful figurines she had ever seen. She snuck one out, went to New York to show it to a friend, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Even after Horace became famous, and he commanded a prince’s ransom for his work, they stayed in the same humble home they bought when they first got married. While the sculpting was Horace’s pride and joy, the home was Annie’s. She knew every flower that grew in the garden, and took extraordinary pride in keeping the house clean and tidy. She was born to be a wife and mother, and she knew it, and was happy in her role as such. Her friends from school used to tease her about not having any ambition. But she never wanted to be a nurse, or a doctor, or to enter the business world. She was happy just being Mrs. Horace Grimsby.

Annie took to pregnancy like she was born to have children. She never had morning sickness, didn’t gain too much weight, and loved to decorate the baby’s room in pastel colors. She wanted a boy, or a girl. It didn’t really matter to her, as long as the baby was healthy. Horace, she knew, wanted a boy, but then, didn’t all men want boys?

True to form, even Annie’s labor was short and sweet. Barely four hours after her first pain, she was delivered of a most marvelous miracle. Baby Emery emerged red and crying lustily before he was even all the way into this world. Horace, who did not have the stomach for such things, thank you, was in the waiting room for the news. When the doctor came in and said, “Mr. Grimsby, you have a boy!” he thought his whole face might split open from the smile.

Horace stood by his wife’s bedside, beaming. “Oh, Annie,” he said, “I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to be a father.”

Annie just smiled. “Nobody is ready to be a father, Horace. You kind of grow into the position.”

“Yeah, well, I never grew into the position of police officer.”

“That’s because you didn’t love it. Look at it this way, Horace,” Annie said. “When you choose a piece of marble, or a scrap of wood, it doeesn’t look like much, right?”

“Right.”

“ And how do you make it look beautiful?”

“Well, I just carve away what doesn’t belong and keep what should be there, until it looks right.”

“Being a parent is just like that. You just train out the traits you don’t want your son to have, and what’s left is what’s right.”

Horace relaxed. “You may be right,” he said, “but I’m still scared to death.”

“So am I,” Annie said. “So am I. But with all this love, I’m pretty sure Emery Scott Grimsby will be just fine.”

“Prepared or not,” Horace grinned, “parenthood, here we come!”